


In Which Darcy And The Good Captain Clear The Air

by Out_Of_Custody



Series: Courting Rituals Of Reformed Soviet Assassins [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: (sometimes), Bucky Barnes is dead, Clearing the air, Darcy is a tea snob, Darcy's Brother, Death, PTSD, The Talk, it's bucky's fault, long live Bucky Barnes, we're all grown-ups here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 14:58:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7176530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Out_Of_Custody/pseuds/Out_Of_Custody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was no pranking, but the talk... THE TALK was long overdue</p><p>[don't read if allergic to emotions/ emotional moments]</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Darcy And The Good Captain Clear The Air

**Author's Note:**

> It's been finished for some time now but I was a little insecure about posting it - mostly because it sounded like you were expecting grand schemes of pranking and... this is just not it, so if you expected pranks on behalf of Darcy then I'm afraid... that this is not your read

When he wasn’t busy being an absolute ass-cracker, Darcy supposed, Captain Rogers could probably be rather easy to talk to. Not, admittedly, that they were currently trading smooth barbs and championing dialogue as if they’d scripted it – the topic of their meeting alone would probably prohibit that.

But she had to give him plus points for the setting of their discussion. The mere fact that he’d taken her out of the Tower for their tête-à-tête – not that Tony wouldn’t be able to piggy-back them if he was in one of his moods – indicated a certain level of readiness for conversation: looking for a place in which they both had equal footing and wouldn’t be able to go off like a fuse without (severe) repercussions.

Also, and this she had to hand to him, he’d made certain of their ability to enter and consume in privacy – she did _not_ need the Press on her very fine ass with AIM still out there and having undisclosed designs on her thank-you-very-much.

He looked uneasy – had from the very beginning. Ever since he’d toed the threshold of her office-doorway his face hadn’t lost his conundrum of emotions that ranged from _contrite_ to _kicked puppy_ to _constipated_ to (and this was her least favourite) _utterly devastated_.

Still, Darcy was well versed in the waiting game and she could artfully fill up a room with silence until her opponent felt as if they were drowning in it – she’d _learned_ from the years with her mother (and, as proven, Steve Rogers’ behaviour bore similarities to that of her mother in regards to conflict).

Their tea arrived and while she herself busied her hands by preparing it (she was very unhappy with the fact that the water came pre-poured in a small can and the _infusion_ -sachet had to be added – she shuddered just thinking about it) Captain Rogers just… sat and stared.

For the blink of a moment Darcy wondered if her opposite was ever going to gather the balls to say something, but decided equally quickly to wait him out until, at least, her cup of tea was gone – if he didn’t speak afterwards, well… she wasn’t above walking out of him either.

She took a sip and-  
\--yeah, it was as bad as she’d thought.

(She grimaced and her mind fought over either cursing or praising James.)

A small snort tore her out of her musings and she raised her head to find Rogers giving her a droll little smile – he nodded at the cup.

“Not to your liking?” –his voice was objectively nice when it wasn’t spitting vitriol.

Darcy gave the cup a sceptical look. “James has been plying me with proper tea – in _leaves_ – and I hope this doesn’t offend you but I fear he’s spoilt me.” She admitted, setting her cup down and giving it a hard glare.

Captain Rogers gave a small, secretive smile preparing his own tea with practiced ease (she’d seen that smile before…). “It’s funny, actually-“ he started “-but he didn’t know _real tea_ until the SSR in London.”

She looked up, surprised. It must have showed, because Rogers’ smile grew a little as he fed his infusion-sachet into the small can of hot water. He shook his head. “ _Bucky_ … didn’t drink tea until coffee was rationed in Europe and Peggy introduced him to _Assam_ and – swear to god – created a monster.”

There it was again, the droll little quirk of the lips that Captain Rogers wore and Darcy realized, with a mental jolt, that this was his _Bucky Smile_ – a smile for a man who’d fallen in Austria in 1945. Curious, she inspected it closer, not shy of her perusal of him. It was a fond gesture, a little exasperated, sadness hanging in one corner of his mouth (but it didn’t really show unless you looked into his eyes) and radiating love with aching clarity. Darcy liked it immediately (honest thing that it was) and responded with one of her own.

“Considering I’ve had to re-arrange my kitchen space for the collection of tea-boxes I’ve miraculously acquired, I can probably only attest to that.” She responded drily, and in a salute, lifted her cup to take a sip – the flavour had not improved, she was still dissatisfied.

Silence re-took the air between them then, but it was more comfortable now, the tension eased and bleeding out of their postures and the bubble they’d created around them, fiddling hands moved from their laps to their sides, to the table, gestures a little wider, a little more open.

“He likes you a lot.” Captain Rogers finally hummed and when she looked up his eyes weren’t really on her. “And it’s a good thing-“, he continued, still not seeing the _here_ , “—was from the beginning. I just…” His eyes swerved, finding hers and his voice faltered; the present scarier than the void in his head; Rogers swallowed, looked down. “I know I fucked things up.” He finally said, silently (and a little petulantly).

“It wasn’t- wasn’t my intention.” His fingers returned to his lap, holding on to a sugar-packet to fiddle around with. Darcy waited. “I know he’s not Bucky.” He said then. “I know he can be my friend, but he’s not that man any more. It’s taken a lot of time for me to get that and… I’m not certain I’ll ever be over – completely and utterly _over_ – the death of… of Bucky Barnes.”

Darcy bit her lips, practically vibrating in her seat – all patience now gone. Oh, she wanted to _talk_! She wanted to speak to him, wanted to soothe him (Fuck it; she wanted to cuddle him and wrap him into woollen blankets!) but she knew that she had to give him the time and space to express himself.

Hell, basically Captain Fucking America was _her age_ – considering his lived years. And he hadn’t, by far, had the pleasure of learning to socialise the way she had. Because Steven Grant Rogers had been a sickly kid with no friends save for one Bucky Barnes, and he’d enlisted for the war at twenty-three, he’d become a Tool by twenty-four – had earned his title as Captain by twenty-five and had led men twice his age into operations that, for all intents and purposes, had been stamped red with the tag ‘suicidal’.

So she grit her teeth until her jaw hurt and gnawed on her tongue until she could taste blood, because Sam Wilson might be a miracle worker when it came to the psychological well-being of the Avengers – but he was basically a shrink for hire. And while professional help was good and in many cases necessary, Darcy had made the experience that you weren’t truly healing until you could say it in public.

He looked up then, straight into the eyes and Darcy didn’t hesitate to answer his stare. “You’re a good person, Darcy Lewis. I knew that even before I fucked up. I was worried what would happen to him if he found himself harming you because I know that he wouldn’t want that – James… (she could see that hurt) he’s on the right track. He can’t be hurting the one thing that’s helping him.”

The wind he’d caught – or that had caught him – ebbed away; whooshed out of his lungs and decompressed him entirely until she wondered if the crumpled man in front of her was indeed the Captain Rogers who’d snarled at her and belittled her.

As he continued, his hands found their way back onto the table-top, movements still shaky, but regaining in steadiness: “I went about it the wrong way.” He conceded. “I can see that now. There’s a lot of angles in this whole fiasco I haven’t had a chance to look at yet – most of the time I don’t even understand myself properly.” He made a sound in the back of his throat, put the packet of sugar away, linked his fingers and hunched his shoulders as he leaned forward, giving her a slow smile full of mixed signals. “It’s a very long monologue to say I’m sorry.”

Darcy snorted, allowed herself to ease tension before it could decide to come back – she didn’t look at him instantly, shook her hair an tilted her head at first, but when she did it was with resolve.

“I understand you.” She finally said – leaning forward and taking her spoon (it was fucking _tiny_ and she wondered if they’d miss it if she took it with her) but she placed it back down when she realized that it was going to be a distraction. Leaning back again, she crossed one arm over her chest, the other hand resting on the table between them – she didn’t look at him when she continued.

“When I was fifteen I lost my brother.” He didn’t answer (that was good, she couldn’t do this with interruptions). “Dylan-”, a thought crossed her mind, poetic and woeful and she didn’t filter it, “—Dylan went into the Sands and his soul is buried in lands I cannot pronounce.” The thought hadn’t gone further than that and she halted, searching for the right words to continue. “When he came back he was a body that, while operational, was empty.”

And that had been fine – somewhat – because- “My Father is a Marine so, in our family, we’re somewhat acquainted with what _Tours_ can do to you, you know?” She looked up, found his gaze, kept it (but didn’t see it when she continued). “And Dad dealt with it by gardening. He always said he was keeping the soil his roots sat in happy, so that they would always stick.” Darcy swallowed, eyes swerving to look at a point over his shoulder. “Dylan didn’t have that.” She said then. “Dylan-- came back riddled with monsters we couldn’t help him with.”

She bit her lip, looked down (out with it already – she was not going to let this stop her from healing – come on!) – “I lost my brother when I was fifteen – and I have neither husk nor soul to mourn.”

Darcy’s eyes found his again and she squared her jaw against the wetness in her eyes; she forced a smile. “But I cannot imagine Dylan passing me every day and not knowing he is my brother.”

Her vision might have blurred but maybe her eyesight had nothing to do with the glistening on Steve Rogers’ cheeks.

(She did take the fucking tiny spoon with her. Two blocks down from the Café Steve Rogers surprised her when he handed her the one he’d been fiddling with.)

**Author's Note:**

> because talking it out like grown-up people is awesome (and under-done, IRL and in written form)


End file.
